Page 119 of Only the Wicked
“It is, but I’ve got to run. Dorian’s shouting about something.”
“You’re not in the office?”
“No. We headed to Maine to get a break from the heat for the weekend.” Her voice goes lower, like she placed the phone against her chest. “In a minute!”
“Go,” I tell her. “Speak later.”
“Speak soon,” she says, and the call ends.
I try Hudson again, and this time, he answers.
“Parker. All okay?”
“Yes. I have an update.”
“Go ahead.”
I pause, glancing at the drapes, knowing that in the CIA what I’m about to say would mean dismissal. “I came clean to Rhodes. We can trust him. He’s going to work with us to determine if anyone within ARGUS is selling intel.”
“Are you emotionally involved?”
My fingers curl, but there’s no point in taking offense. The question echoes our academy instructor’s warnings about “agents and emotional compromise.”
“Yes.” I pause because stating my case too quickly undermines my cause. “However, I’m eyes wide open. I also learned important information. The Russian meeting wasn’t a business meeting. Not exactly. They’re blackmailing him. They want him to buy the Forbes Intelligence database—obviously to use for their purposes. He hasn’t agreed to anything.”
“This database—did he mention what it contains?”
“No specifics, but it’s valuable enough that the Russians are risking diplomatic exposure to acquire it.”
“And you said he’s willing to work with us?”
“Yes. If there’s?—”
“Let me get back to you.”
The call ends and I look at the phone in my hand. That was odd.
I pull up a secure search window on my phone and type “Forbes Intelligence database.” Nothing relevant appears—either it’s highly classified or deliberately obscured.
A feeling of failure overwhelms me. I’m not one who fails, and yet I failed this operation.
I should go for a run. Take a cue from Rhodes.
I step past the bathroom and shout so Jake can hear over the shower, “I’m heading out.”
I toss the empty paper cup into a small bin and exit Jake’s hotel room. As I head down the hall, following the arrows to the elevator bank, I hear someone knocking on a door. The sound grows louder as I progress down the hall, and I slow when I hear a too-familiar voice.
I peer around the corner, instinctively pressing against the wall to minimize my profile. The hallway carpeting muffles my footsteps as I edge closer.
David Crawford stands in the doorway of room 714, his broad back to me, one hand gripping the doorframe. His posture radiates tension—shoulders rigid, neck muscles visibly taut. He’s speaking in hushed tones, but his clipped gestures suggest urgency or frustration.
The door opens wider and adrenaline surges. My periphery darkens, and I home in on the man in the doorway.
It’s the FBI agent from the bar yesterday; the one who tried to plant a tracker on me. His expression is deferential but firm as he responds to whatever the senator is demanding.
I lift my phone, frame the shot carefully, and capture the exchange—Crawford’s distinctive salt and pepper hair from behind, and the full face of his companion. The agent’s eyes shift suddenly, scanning the hallway, and I withdraw around the corner, pulse quickening.
How do they know each other? Crawford is a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Is Crawford staying in this hotel, or is this a dedicated meeting spot?
